


Fast Forward, Rewind

by x_art



Category: Supernatural
Genre: M/M, Missing Scene, season 10
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-12-31
Updated: 2017-12-31
Packaged: 2019-02-25 19:39:38
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,671
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/13219809
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/x_art/pseuds/x_art
Summary: He never had that, that sense of ownership and freedom. Mostly it had never bothered him, mostly he just figured it was the payoff for doing what normal people couldn’t.





	Fast Forward, Rewind

**Author's Note:**

> This shortie is a missing scene from a story I'm working on. I think you can read it without the other but if you want to wait, I should have the full story posted sometime in mid-January.

Fast Forward, Rewind

 

 

 

It becomes one of Dean’s favorite memories, faded only by time and overuse because he recalls it whenever he needs comfort, whenever things are once again fucked up between him and Sam, when he’s sad or mad or somewhere between. He never asks if Sam remembers, too, because he doesn’t have to—along with everything else, Sam has a freakishly good memory and Dean just knows…

***

They’ve been given a three-day reprieve, him and Sam, and Dean dives into the seventy-two hours like he’s diving into a nest of vamps.

He tells Sam, _‘Three days means no work, no research. I’m going to Salina to supply this bitch up, you finish up here,’_ and then takes Baby out on the February-slick roads. He spends too much time at the store, cruising slowly down every aisle ’cause the bunker has a lot of food and whatnot, but they’re not gonna step foot outside until they absolutely have to. He means it, too. Not one damn foot.

He’s thinking that very thing when he turns down the Chips, Popcorn & Snacks aisle. Grabbing a bag of those tortilla chips that Sam likes, he figures the only thing that is gonna get him out of the bunker is a second apocalypse, but even then it would have to be a pretty important apocalypse because the last one was kind of a bust.

He’s reaching for a bag of the potato chips that _he_ likes when he laughs silently. Who would’ve thought there’d come a day when he’d be able to casually brush off _that_ fucked up time? All that angst and worry—it’s weird to recall how scared he’d been. He shakes his head and meets the gaze of a girl down by the popcorn. As if she’d heard what he was thinking, she smiles. He smiles back. Wearing a down vest and a purple sweater, she’s pretty in that Kansas kind of way. In the past, he would have gone up to her and started something with a comment designed to disarm and charm. But it’s not the past, it’s now, and he’s got someone at home that’s far prettier. Just that, the thought of Sam waiting, makes Dean’s chest warm and he smiles again, this time off to the side so the girl doesn’t get any ideas.

***

The cart is full and he’s pushing it to the front to check out when he stops. He turns around and goes to the Personal Hygiene aisle. Personal Hygiene—could they make it sound anymore skeevy and creepy? ‘Personal hygiene’ sounds like something a proctologist would specialize in. _‘See, doc, I knew it was a mistake, but this girl talked me into it so now I need some personal hygiene ‘cause I think I got a problem back there…’_

Dean snorts, but distractedly because he’s reached the condom and lubricant section. He ignores the condoms and picks up a box of lube. There’s still some in his nightstand drawer, a half-used tube, but hey, three-days of doing nothing but Sam is fucking special and he wants to acknowledge it, even with something as stupid as this. He tosses the box in the cart and then grabs another because you just never know.

There’s only one checkout lane open and he queues up, idly glancing at the magazines. Political and celebrity headlines don’t interest him too much but a story about a Z-list actor that has just come out that catches his eye. It sets of a chain reaction and Dean gets a weird pain in his gut when he realizes that his dream girl, the one that causes the personal hygiene problem, could now be a dream guy because that’s what he’s been doing for the last two months, right? A guy? Between the sheets with Sam, as much as he can get, anytime he can get it. He’s over the shock of it, sorta, but it’s added a new dimension to his own self and he wonders if he’s freaking out. No, he decides, pushing the cart forward now that the woman up ahead with the five million items is finally stuffing her wallet into her purse. It’s just Sam, not some random dude and that’s okay ‘cause it was always gonna be Sam.

Still, as he puts his groceries on the worn conveyer belt, he wonders about other facets of this new dimension, like, should he not enjoy cooking now? What about cleaning because he gets a kick out of sweeping and using his new space-age vacuum cleaner. And then there’s the sex—bottom, top, it’s all good and he doesn’t differentiate.

The only thing…

The only thing is that he sometimes feels like he’s got a leash on his hands and tongue ’cause he sometimes has to stop himself from touching Sam when they’re on the road, from calling him things he would a woman: _Baby, babe,_ and even the excruciatingly embarrassing _sweetie._

So, yeah, he’s gotta rewind because it still _is_ kind of weird, still is kind of a shock, and when the register lady with the bright red hair asks, “Did you find everything you need?” Dean answers with a distracted nod and a troubled smile.

***

He studies the receipt as he makes his way around the cars. The total is crazy high which means Sam is gonna have something to say. He’ll take one look and then bitch about the issue of money going out with little coming in. It’s a continual problem, money, but it’s also not because it’s the way it’s always been. Nothing can be a problem if that’s the only way it’s been, right? Dean knows his logic is fallacious because Sam told him that same thing months ago when Dean had presented his theory. _‘That’s a fallacious argument, Dean. Did you really think I’d buy it?’_

Playing dumb, Dean had asked Sam what a sex position had to do with their finances. Sam had given him that look, that pissy, _you have got to be kidding_ look and didn’t speak to him the rest of the afternoon.

It still makes Dean grin.

***

The first day of their reprieve goes as expected—a few arguments, some Sam-directed discussions, and lots of hot sex. Dean had expected the first two, but the third…

He walks around the bunker like he’s in a daze. Almost literally, as it turns out. He’s coming back from a shower, hurrying because he doesn’t like leaving Sam longer then necessary, and is turning one of the bunker’s many corners when he pictures Sam, sacked out in his bed. He lists sideways like a car sliding on ice and hits the tiled wall. “Damnit,” he mutters because he just ran into a wall. In his own home. He self corrects and keeps going. It should worry him, this weird, can’t-leave-Sam-alone-for-long attitude but it doesn’t. He’s felt like this for most of his life and if this old feeling is now because of a new feeling, that’s all right with him.

***

The second day is sorta like the first except they’re both more relaxed. Sam doesn’t bring up the future or the past or any of the stuff they can’t change even if they could, even if they wanted to. Sam is happy.

For his own part, Dean tries to keep up because Sam unchained with no social barriers of any kind is an animal. Dean’s body is proof of that, a physical illustration that Sam is strong and focused and committed when he wants something. Dean’s got hickeys on his throat, bruises on his arms, chest, and legs, and—high on the inside of his thigh where no one else will see and he barely can—a curved purple mark because Sam’s teeth are sharp. No complaints but it’s a little overwhelming, Sam’s love. Of course, Dean would rather be poked in the eye with a hot needle before he ever told Sam that.

And maybe that’s why on the third day of their holiday, they get out of bed, eat breakfast and then drift apart.

Casually, like he’s tiptoeing past a sleeping lion, Dean says he wants to work on Dorothy’s Indian Scout. Sam shrugs and says it’s cool—he wants to finish the last book of the Game of Thrones series. He strokes Dean’s ankle with his toes, and then puts his dishes in the sink and pads out of the kitchen.

Dean is almost true to his word. The tank on Dorothy’s bike is rusted worn and thin in places. He wants to get a new one but Sam has already put the kibosh on that purchase so he takes the tank off and examines it. He thinks he can fix it with a little epoxy. Like Bobby’s garage, there are a couple shelves stocked with odds and ends in the storeroom off the kitchen. Wiping grease off his hands, he wanders out, thinking of Bobby, hoping he’s enjoying his rest up in heaven.

Instead of going to the kitchen, though, Dean veers left and goes upstairs. He’s not spying, he tells himself; he just wants to see if Sam is okay. Sam is okay. He’s in a wingback chair, one long leg over the arm, head figuratively buried in his book.

Dean stands there for a moment, watching. Sam engrossed in a book—it was such a common sight when they were growing up but not so much now. Probably because they’ve been busy trying to stay alive, trying to stay sane and whole.

Spirits slightly dampened, Dean goes back downstairs and searches through all the neatly labeled boxes until he finds one marked, ‘ _Glue, Sticking Paste, Mucilage, & Assorted Adhesives_.’ He finds several kinds of epoxy in little boxes that hold two tubes.

The epoxy is smelly and will probably give him lung cancer or kill a lot of brain cells, but it does the trick and by noon, he’s done. He leaves the tank upside down to dry. Without asking, he makes lunch for two—soup from a can and toasted cheese sandwiches—and takes a plate and bowl upstairs. Sam is still reading though he’s switched positions and is now facing the telescope.

“Here,” Dean says as he sets the dishes down on the side table.

Sam’s gaze drifts sideways. He leans over and picks up the sandwich and goes back to his book.

“You’re welcome,” Dean says, not bothering to hide the amused sarcasm.

Sam nods. “Sure thing.”

Dean shakes his head, stifling the urge to stroke Sam’s knee, and returns to the kitchen.

***

He finishes lunch, goes back upstairs for Sam’s empty plate and bowl and then washes the dishes. Hands still wet, he wonders what he should do next. The only time in recent memory that he’d had the luxury of downtime was years ago with Lisa. Even then, his free hours had been relegated to after-work drinks and weekend barbecues. He could go bother Sam out of his book, but Sam has lived the same cramped life and has had the same lack of freedom. So, he dries his hands and returns to the garage.

Dean works on the Impala until three, cleaning what doesn’t need cleaning, polishing the same. She’s gonna need her oil changed and he weighs time versus need and decides she can wait. Feeling like a horse on a merry-go-round, he returns to the library.

Sam is still reading. Once more, he’s switched positions and he’s sitting sideways in the chair, both legs over the arm. Dean starts to ask how the hell that can be comfortable but doesn’t. He’s in a bad mood he realizes. Or maybe he’s just restless; he’s never been very good at relaxing.

As if to prove himself wrong, he retraces his own path, this time going to his room. He can do this. He can be still like Sam. It’s a little late for a post-lunch nap, but he takes off his boots and lays down anyway and then reaches for his headphones.

He’s not big on modern technology but he really loves his bluetooth headphones. Sam had helped him choose the equipment, then hooked him up and shown him how to use the MP4 player that’s no bigger than a credit card. He scrolls through the menu and chooses _The River_ , ‘cause he’s in that kind of mood.

In a minute he’s gone, listening to Bruce sing about normal people living normal lives. Maybe it’s thinking about Lisa earlier, maybe it’s the recent conversation with Sam about loneliness. Maybe it’s just Bruce’s words: _I walk the way I wanna walk, when I’m out in the street, I talk the way I wanna talk,_ but his moodiness takes on a new edge. He never had that, that sense of ownership and freedom. Or rather, he had, but it had been freedom of another sort. Growing up the way they had, he’d always felt as if they’d lived their lives in the shadows. Mostly it had never bothered him, mostly he just figured it was the payoff for doing what normal people couldn’t.

But now he wonders how much more he can take. He doesn’t want to live this way forever. He wants, God help him, what Sam wants: A future that isn’t just death and more dying and another abyss waiting around the corner. He wants normal breakfasts and normal dinners, talking about their day, the problems, the bills they gotta pay. And when the day is done, he wants to go up to the bedroom—because this mythical life always includes a Kansas two-story—and sleep with no fear. If Sam’s in that bed, too, that would be even better but it’s not a deal breaker.

The question is, can he outlast Death? Can Sam? Can they get rid of the Mark of Cain and make it to the finish line?

Dean is still frowning when his door swings open. It’s Sam, standing in the threshold. Seen from the height of a few feet, Sam is huge, leaning into the room, hands pressed against the doorjamb. Lust curls in Dean’s stomach, honey-warm, washing his mind clean of everything but the knowledge that he’s been fooling himself this whole while. He hasn’t been relaxing, he hasn’t been getting things done—he’s been waiting for Sam to give in. Even at breakfast, if Sam had said, _‘No, you’re not working on Dorothy’s motorcycle; we’re going back to bed,’_ Dean would have swallowed the last of his coffee and said, _‘Okey-dokey.’_

Sam doesn’t move, like he’s waiting for a signal.

As _The River_ comes on and the tempo darkens, Dean mood changes once more. Suddenly somber, mind-meltingly aching, he holds Sam’s gaze and places his hand on his stomach. He waits a beat, then slides a few fingers under his t-shirt, his face burning because Sam looks like he wants to pounce. _‘C’mon,’_ Dean thinks, _‘‘c’mon, big boy.’_ He swallows because he can’t help it.

Spark to tinder, Sam comes on. With two great strides, he’s on the bed, on all fours over Dean. Sam says something and Dean takes off the headphones. He’s done something to the system because music is now coming through the speakers and it fills the room, heavy and lush. The dark beat quickens, just a little. Sam crouches and—his eyes never leaving Dean’s—he bites the edge of Dean’s t-shirt and drags it up.

The principal of every porno Dean has ever seen, it should be stupid, this thing Sam is doing. It’s not. It’s incredibly sexy and he shivers, cold-hot.

“Hm, mm,” Sam says. “Missed you.” He switches tactics, licking a slow stripe up Dean’s belly.

 _Fuck._ And, _ah_.

Sam does it again, cool breath, warm tongue, this time licking to the side, hitting that space between Dean’s ribs and hip that seems hardwired to his dick and…

 _“Fuck,”_ he breathes, shivering and pressing his shoulders into his memory foam mattress that’s gonna remember this and never, ever forget.

“Like that?” Sam whispers, his voice impossibly deep.

Dean opens his mouth to answer but Sam does it again.

Every muscle in Dean’s body tightens. He reaches down with both hands and fumbles, finding Sam’s hair. He twines his fingers in the thick strands and thrusts, hard.

Sam laughs, his breath hot in the hollow of Dean’s hip.

“Don’t, Sammy.”

“Yeah, sorry, no teasing.”

And Sam doesn’t. With smooth, practiced fingers, he unfastens Dean’s jeans and drags his clothes down with a swift yank. Just below his knees which is frustrating because Dean can’t really move and—

Sam licks his dick and then breathes.

“Jesus fuck, Sam, if you don—”

“Wait.” Sam slides up Dean, hitting all the wrong spots, and pulls the nightstand drawer open. “Just wait,” he repeats as he grabs the crinkled, half-used lube and then the headphones. With a smile, he puts the headphones on Dean and then scoots back down and drags Dean’s jeans and shorts off.

Mouth flooded, heart thudding like it wants to jump out of his chest, same as that time with that kid who didn’t know fantasy from fact, Dean watches as Sam slicks up his fingers, as Sam smiles that Sam smile and…

Sam kisses Dean’s hipbone and then goes to town.

Wrapped in the triple threat sensations of music, Sam’s hot mouth and his crazy long fingers, Dean is pulled apart. He’s still trapped by Sam’s weight and can only hunch and rock and fist Sam’s hair, holding on because he’s on the road to too good but then he hears Bruce sing, ‘ _…I remember us riding in my brother’s car…’_

He comes so hard he sees stars and dots and then just black.

***

Fugued out in the good way, Dean fumbles for the headphones and drops them by the bed while Sam messes about with a wash rag and a towel and then the sheets and blankets.

Finally, Sam is done; he slides under the covers and nudges.

Dean sighs and moves over.

“Thanks,” Sam says, turning so he’s mostly on his stomach, one arm over Dean’s chest. “Sixty-nine,” he says into the pillow.

“All right,” Dean replies after a moment. They hadn’t tried it before but he’s willing. “Just give me more than a few minutes to recharge.”

Sam snorts a laugh into the pillow and his shoulders shake. “Dude. Sixty-nine hours, not… You know.”

Oh. He strokes Sam’s arm from elbow to wrist. “You been counting?”

“Of course I have. You have, too.”

Dean gives him that because it’s true. “Seventy-two was just a rough estimate. Maybe it’ll be more.”

“It won’t be. This is Cas we’re talking about. He said seventy-two and he meant it.”

“Yeah. Probably calculated the whole trip down to the nanosecond.” For someone so strong, Sam’s wrist feels really fragile. “Shouldn’t have wasted the day.”

“Then you should have just given in.”

Dean smiles. “Knew you were holding out on me.”

“And I knew you knew that I knew.”

He puzzles that out and is about to add another round when Sam pinches the soft skin under his bicep and says, “Don’t.”

Dean twitches and breathes a laugh. “Yeah, okay.” He circles Sam’s wrist and rubs the long tendons. “Hey, you need me to…?” He doesn’t have to finish.

“Nah. I’m good.”

“Sure?” he asks because it’s kind of rude, isn’t it? One guy getting off while the other doesn’t?

“Yeah.”

“Okay.”

“You were right, you know.”

“Of course I was,” Dean agrees. And then a beat and, “What exactly was I right about?”

“This mattress is great.”

He waits for Sam to say, _‘I’m going to get one,’_ but Sam says nothing and the thing that Dean has been wanting to ask for weeks now is right there. Not, _‘What the fuck are we doing?’_ or _‘How the hell are we gonna make this work?’_ or the one from the beginning, _‘How are we going to hide this from the world?’_ but, _‘What’s going to happen after?’_ because that’s the crux, right?

When all will be said and done and their pendulum has swung back to normal and the Mark is gone, will he still let himself have this, let himself have Sam? The wanting isn’t a problem but will the wanting be enough? Will they go back to what they had, as close as two people can be, but without the sex and touching and comfort?

The answer, of course, is right in front of him, as hard as and everlasting as stone and he really needs to learn how to stop lying to himself because who was he kidding? His fantasy second-story bed was always gonna include Sam.

He must have made some sound because Sam kind of stills and says, “You okay?”

He shrugs and then does what he always does, what he perfected so long ago he can’t remember the before: he lies through his teeth, “I’m golden, Sammy.” He waits for Sam to call him out but Sam just snorts gently into the pillow and then turns, his back to Dean.

On automatic, like they’ve done this a zillion times, Dean rolls to his side and scoots up close to Sam and then wraps his arm around his waist.

“It’ll be okay,” Sam says, interlacing their fingers. “You’ll see.”

“I know.”

It’s another lie, of course. He fairly certain this whole thing is gonna go terribly wrong. But he’s always gonna give Sam what he needs, even if Sam doesn’t want it, even if it’s the lie of the century. Besides, it served its purpose. That abyss he’s been standing before, the one that’s always showing a new face? Sam’s been right there, by his side the whole time. Sam needs the lie; _they_ need the lie.

Knowing Sam would disagree but completely content, Dean slides his leg between Sam’s because Sam likes it that way and kisses that back of his ear. “So, sixty-nine?”

“Sure," Sam says around a breath of a laugh. "We got another couple hours.”

 

_fin._

 


End file.
